


turmoil

by bobtheacorn



Series: And Never Again Feel Weak [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: /w Apologies to Krolia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Black Paladin Keith (Voltron), Closure, Emphasis on the Hurt Mostly Sry, Galra Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Lance's Parents finally make a cameo appearance Hola, M/M, Minor Character Death, Red Paladin Lance (Voltron), Relationship complications, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobtheacorn/pseuds/bobtheacorn
Summary: It's weird to have a name and a face to go along with the ideas that Keith has halfheartedly formed around the wordmom.He has had plenty of time to imagine what she would be like. How she would act, what she would look like, the things she might say to him.Krolia is... Not what he pictured. She looks like someone his dad would have liked.Maybe that's a weird observation....//Pidge brings Keith some devastating news. The resulting turmoil creates complications in his relationship with Lance.





	turmoil

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place (about) 1 year after part five: chasing the feeling of being held

Keith looks up from underneath the engine of the hoverbike he's been building from scratch. With the threat from wayward Galra factions waning fast - with the Empire stabilizing, and even thriving, on its own, finally - with the Coalition's Peace Movement growing stronger every day - the Paladins of Voltron are allowed hobbies and spare time to do what they want instead of only what they have to. Mechanics is something Keith enjoys, thanks to Hunk. It gives him something to do with his hands and allows his mind to wander, gives him something to focus on so that other things can fall into perspective.

And he definitely likes the thrill of being able to drive or fly something he's built with his bare hands. (He likes having the excuse to take Lance with him on "test runs" just so the two of them can get out of the confines of the Castle and be planetside for a while, wherever they are in the universe.)

It's a good feeling overall.

But this time, Pidge is standing a few feet away, thumping a tablet into their open palm and looking indecisive, even nervous.

They've been standing there a while.

Since Pidge rarely needs prompting in order to speak, Keith had thought they would say whatever is on their mind if he just gave them a few tics. Now that it's painfully obvious that they're not going to, he's starting to get a little antsy, himself. The belt he's tightening needs one final twist, and then Keith pulls his arms free of the engine, sliding out from underneath it. He leaves a dark handprint smudged on the floor of the hanger and rolls to his feet, glancing at Pidge again.

"Need something?" Keith asks, trying to keep the tremor in his gut from working its way into the question.

Something about this doesn't feel right and Keith has learned to trust his instincts, and trust the bond they all share that leaks emotions and intent.

Pidge hesitates to come forward and then stands just outside of Keith's reach. He doesn't miss this, and his heartbeat quickens, a frown deepening on his face as he watches Pidge turn the tablet around and around in their nimble hands. Even at twenty years old, they're still the smallest member of the team, a full head shorter than Keith, built for subterfuge and tech-support and not so much for actual combat; but because of their tenacity and attitude, and general ruthlessness in a pinch, Keith has never really thought of Pidge as  _ small _ the way he does right now.

"I… I found something I think you should see, Keith," Pidge says, glancing up over the rim of their glasses and then straight down again.

Their shoulders are pulled up, fingers drumming against the tablet.

Keith finishes wiping his hands clean with a spare rag, and extends one free of grease to take the tablet from them. Pidge doesn't offer it to him, their arms shaking with the effort to hold it back, and Keith slowly withdraws his hand. Belatedly, he notices the tears stinging Pidge's eyes, the way they're chewing on their lip. He doesn't have to dip into their bond, their shared quintessence as Paladins, in order to understand that Pidge is upset. The knowledge trickles down his spine.

"Pidge, what's the matter?"

"I'm - I'm sorry," they blurt out. It's like a damn breaking open. "I didn't ask! But I knew you were wanting, y'know - whenever things had settled down, I know you had mentioned wanting to try and find your family, your - your mother. Because she was obviously Galra and you never knew anything about her and the Blade of Marmora is virtually useless because of their secrecy clauses, but then, I dunno, you never - you never mentioned it again. And I.... I mean. I know it's none of my business. It wasn't my place. But I still - I was clearing away some old data and I came across some reports. I - "

The rest gets twisted up in Pidge's throat and they have to stop, sucking in a shaking breath.

Keith doesn't like this.

He doesn't like it when people get emotional around him. He has gotten better, but he never knows what the right way to respond is. Right now he feels like he's sinking. What was once steady and sure and constant is dissolving right under his feet. He can feel Pidge's emotions slipping through the careful calm he has, feels it slowly breaking down under the pressure.

Carefully, Pidge rights the tablet in their hands and holds it out to Keith.

He doesn't even want to take it now.

"I…. I found your mom," Pidge says, "It's- there's a fifty percent match to your DNA. And I contacted Kolivan as soon as I put everything together myself. He confirmed that she was one of their members. I wanted… I wanted to make sure you didn't go through what I did when I was trying to find Matt. I couldn't bring this to you without being sure. ….Keith?"

The tablet tips uncertainly and Pidge pulls it back slightly. Keith is staring at it, and he feels like a train is rushing through him. He doesn't feel or hear anything other than the sound of his own pulse screaming through him, filling his head space with static.

_ "Was," _ he says.

It doesn't even sound like his voice.

"Y...yeah," Pidge says, shrinking back, "She…. She died… A few years ago. Two Galra commanders were fighting over territory and…. The base where she was stationed was right in the middle of it. It was such a remote incident, it flew right under our radar. I'm sorry…."

Keith doesn't say anything for a long time. When he does, it's just, "Okay," and nothing else. Pidge looks really worried, shifting their feet, glancing around toward the hanger door that's standing open and empty of anyone except for the two of them. Keith realizes he should probably say something else. Breathe. Move.  _ Something. _ He has some experience with blacking out. He knows what that tingling sensation at the back of his skull means, the sudden swoop of lightheadedness.

He turns and drops the rag he's still holding on top of his toolbox. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pidge flinch at the abrupt movement. He turns again and walks past them to the door.

"Keith…? Keith, I'm - I'm sorry, okay?  _ Keith." _

Keith's ears are ringing and he barely even hears it.

\----

There's an alcove in one of the corridors on the upper decks that Keith likes to visit sometimes. It has a huge circular window that stares out into deep space, with a seat in the bottom of it and cushy benches lining the walls. He isn't necessarily a big fan of the comfort aspect of it, the closed-in space and big pillows, or even the unobstructed view of distant galaxies and stars. He likes that it's in a part of the Castle that's not often traveled, and that he can hide there without being bothered.

Most of the time.

Keith is sitting in that window with his boots up on the cushions when Lance comes looking for him several hours later. Keith is holding his knife in his hands, staring at it, turning it over. The luxite blade is just as sharp as ever, the edge glistening in the light under his thumb, the Galran symbol glowing just as vividly on the hilt as the day his father gave it to him.

Lance stops just inside the alcove, his voice soft, "Hey."

"Hey," Keith says without looking up.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, Lance."

"Okay. Because you kind of scared the hell out of Pidge earlier," Lance says without preamble.

"I haven't done anything," Keith can't help feeling petulant at the accusation, finally looking over with narrowed eyes. There's a tablet in Lance's hands, hanging at his side, and Keith feels something like fire rise up unbidden, swelling in his chest. "Why do you have that?"

"What, this?" Lance holds it up, uses  _ that _ tone, pretending he didn't even know he was carrying it and has absolutely no idea what it is. Keith's insides are boiling, his breath sharp as iron as it burns its way into his lungs. "I thought you might want it."

"I don't."

Lance shrugs and tosses the tablet onto the nearest seat. It sinks down into the plush cushions among the rest of Keith's stuff that he's brought up here and then forgotten about over the years; one of Lance's jackets, a nine piece Teslum puzzle, a weird switch knife he got on Kremlar that also doubles as a flashlight, a chunk of comet ore, a blanket knitted out of who-knows-what that is probably one of the softest things in the universe. Lance folds his arms, looks at Keith.

Keith turns his attention out the window, flipping the knife in his hand.

He's never minded the quiet, but Lance can't stand it.

"Keith."

_ "What, _ Lance?"

Keith whips back around. Lance has the nerve to look hurt by his tone. Maybe he did snarl a little. Maybe he didn't mean to. But the look on Lance's face just makes Keith angrier. He doesn't even know if he  _ is _ angry. He just…  _ feels. _ He feels  _ a lot _ of things slamming into each other and he doesn't know where to begin picking them apart and naming them, let alone dealing with them. Anger is his default. Anger is easier. And he hates himself because he's like this.

Because he's  _ still _ like this.

Lance makes him soft and loving in a lot of ways, but they also know just how to dig under each others skin, and Lance is doing that now. Keith is steaming.

"Talk to me," Lance says, softer than before, "I know you're upset."

"I'm not."

"Pidge thinks you're mad at them."

"I'm  _ not." _

"Keith, do you think I can't feel it?" Lance asks, his own frustration slipping through, "You know it's alright to feel bad about this, don't you? It's fine if you don't want to see any of the information that Pidge found, or if you don't want to talk right now, but you can't like you don't care. You can't just bury this, Keith."

"I'm not burying anything."

"Is that the problem?"

That's going too far. That's going  _ too far _ and Lance  _ knows _ that -  _ he knows it _ \- and Keith snaps. 

"Just drop it, Lance! Leave me alone!"

Lance stands stubbornly in the door of the alcove, makes it clear from his stance and expression that he's not going to leave until they resolve this.  _ Fine, _ Keith thinks, surging to his own feet.  _ Fine. _ His heart is pounding, ears ringing, palms sweaty. He shoves Lance aside with his shoulder to get past him out into corridor - he doesn't want to do this now. Some vague hope he hadn't even realized he was still holding onto, a hundred, thousand  _ maybes, _ has been ripped away from him without warning, and something ugly twists, snarling, in his chest.

Lance latches onto his wrist to hold him back.

Those same long fingers that brush Keith's hair back from his face, that tickle up his ribs to tease him. They vice around his wrist.

_ "Keith." _

Keith plants his foot and whirls.

He doesn't hear the pleading dip in Lance's voice, doesn't recognize that Lance is just trying to preemptively stop Keith's walls from coming up and shutting him out. He just  _ hurts. _ He's burning inside, and he  _ hates this. _

So his impulse rushes.

So he swings.

Keith's fist connects with the side of Lance's face, breaks his hold and sends him staggering back against the doorframe. Lance makes a small noise of shock, of pain. His hand is shaking when he brings it up to gingerly touch his cheek, and there's blood in his mouth.

Keith feels like everything inside of him just slides out through the soles of his feet.

It's a sudden, jolting high, and a plummeting low.

A moment of clarity.

All the anger, all the bitterness, all the despair, all the  _ everything _ , replaced with a regret so heavy that it pulls the air out of his lungs. Keith's chest is heaving. The rush to get away is gone. He doesn't even remember what he was running from, can't even think, can't even speak. Lance straightens slowly, looks at the blood on his fingertips and then looks at Keith. His expression is blank with shock, but it's dawning on him, and Keith can't do anything other than watch it happen.

Lance's blue eyes glaze over with tears and then turn ice cold. He closes himself off like a door slamming shut, clenches his jaw, even though it must be throbbing.

_ I'm sorry. _ Keith's entire body screams it, taut like a bowstring.  _ I'm so sorry. _

Lance stares at him coldly, blood slipping to his chin, lip wobbling a little, until Keith doesn't think he'll ever be able to breathe again under the intensity of his gaze, and then Lance turns and walks off down the hall and leaves Keith standing there alone with his turmoil.

\----

Keith stands in their bedroom and feels like the floor is being pulled out from under him. He feels like he's falling, dreading the impact.

He feels like he's been here before.

He feels exactly the same as he did six years ago - small, and alone by his own selfish choices.

He stares at the perfectly made bed he shares with Lance, missing a pillow; at the open drawers where Lance's clothes should be; at the empty spaces left behind in the bathroom where Lance's toothbrush and some of his other stuff usually clutters the counter. It still smells like him, like both of them. Lance's scent permeates the room, even if Keith's senses aren't quite as sharp at the moment as they are later in his cycle. He knows Lance's smell, knows the mood Lance is in by the way the air tastes and feels, and right now it's sour, sends something panicked and hollow creeping into Keith's stomach.

Keith clenches his fists, loosens them immediately, wildly grasping at the idea that this is what he asked for. He asked to be left alone. He -

He can't stay here.

Not in this room.

Not if Lance isn't here, and it's his fault. Not with their joined scent threatening to choke him.

So Keith retreats to the only sanctuary that he has left.

Black's cockpit lights up the moment he enters, hues of rich purple and dark comforting shadows. Aware of his mood, she keeps the interior lights dim. Keith folds himself up in the seat and puts his head against his knees, and tries not the shake himself apart from the inside out.

\----

He spends two days like this:

"Care to explain yourself?" Allura asks with folded arms and narrowed eyes.

She corners him when Keith is still sopping wet from his hurried shower in one of the changing rooms and trying to sneak back to Black's hanger unnoticed. Her emotions hit him hard - clearly etched into every movement of her body. She is angry and upset and confused, and Keith swallows down the resurgence of shame and guilt and fear, avoiding her gaze as he steps carefully around her, his head down, shoulders bowed.

What can he say? How can he explain that he hit Lance -  _ he hit  _ **_Lance_ ** \- because he was feeling too much over losing the mother he never knew, the mother that probably didn't even want him? Keith had come to terms with that a long time ago; with the fact that he would probably never know, that he would probably never find her if she was out there at all. He told himself that he was okay, that he had something else, that he knew who he was, and that was fine, and now he's just….

He's not okay.

He's not okay and he doesn't know  _ why _ .

Pidge haunts the hallway across from the kitchen, waiting for him to turn up. They've been there a while, sitting against the wall, poking at their communicator, and they scramble to their feet when Keith rounds the corner. Keith stops, his heart thudding hard. He had only come creeping out into the main body of the Castle because he had been sure everyone else would be asleep and he realizes too late (again) that he should have known better. Pidge doesn't sleep.

"Hey," Pidge says, leaping to say something, "Keith, listen, I'm really sorry, alright? It wasn't my place to - I should have respected your privacy. That's my bad, okay? You shouldn't be taking it out on Lance, he was just trying to -  _ Keith….!  _ Keith, come on!"

Keith decides starving is the better option.

He runs back to the hanger.

He tries to go to the training room to burn off some of his nervous energy and clear his head. He needs to think. He knows getting it all out of his system will be better than letting it sit here, broiling under his skin, eating him alive. Coran, knowing Keith and his habits as well as he knows the rest of the Paladins, is on the observation deck when Keith goes to pick the sequence he wants to run.

"Ah, Number Four, excellent timing! I've been wanting to talk to you," is all Coran gets out before Keith is stumbling back out the door to escape him.

He tries to work on his hoverbike, desperate at this point for something to do. Some outlet. Some release. Some distraction he can use to get his thoughts in order. He needs to talk to Lance. He needs to explain. He needs to apologize. But all his thoughts and feelings are so convoluted and juvenile that he can barely even grasp at them, loose sand sliding through his fingertips.

Lance is sitting alone in the empty hanger that Keith uses as a workshop. He's perched on the closed lid of the toolbox, with his back to the door and his chin in his hand. In the stark overhead lights, the higher curve of the moon-shaped scar at the base of his throat stands out against his dark skin.

Keith….

Keith isn't ready.

His heart is in his throat, but he bolts again.

Lance's scent chases him out the door, and down the hall, and it lingers heavy on his tongue.

He doesn't sleep at all that first night, or the next. He paces Black's interior, doing push ups until his arms are weak and sore and he's sweating through his t-shirt. When his trembling muscles finally collapse under his weight, Keith lays on the floor, aching, flexing his hands and staring at them. Every time he thinks of seeing Lance, he thinks of the force of his fist connecting, the way it had jarred up his arm and bruised his knuckles. The way Lance's head had snapped back. The way he stumbled. He thinks of the blood in Lance's mouth, his swollen cheek, his hurt expression.

Heat floods Keith's eyes and he bites his lip, squeezing his hands into fists.

He misses Lance.

He misses the warmth of his presence and his soft hands and his bright voice. And he feels stupid over how big his emotions got, how they carried him away.

Being in Black helps, but not in a way that Keith thinks is fair, exactly. That magnanimous presence sweeping back and forth across his mind radiates a calm assurity that Keith won't allow himself to feel; sensing a disruption among the Paladins, as well as the source, his Lion keeps trying to mentally connect him with Lance, trying to align their tumultuous thoughts and resolve whatever is fractured between them for their sakes, and the sake of the team. She tries to pull Keith towards a resolution, toward acceptance and forgiveness, and Keith can't bring himself to that point just yet.

He withdrew from the connection as soon as he realized that's where Black was leading him, as soon as he felt the hesitant but clear touch of Lance's mind against his.

\----

As much as they do have time to spare for leisurely things, now, there is still the occasional emergency call to arms. There are still diplomats to cater to, and generals to order, colonies and relief efforts to organize; there are a million little things to do. Even if Keith is frazzled and wrung out, he can't hide in the Black Lion forever. The good thing about this is, it allows him a certain amount of avoiding-the-problem because there are bigger issues to be dealing with.

It forces some normalcy, even if it is strained at the edges.

When they are all summoned to the bridge by an incoming distress signal, Keith's nerves are firing away inside of him, but his voice doesn't shake and his focus is forward.

Mostly….

It slides, unbidden, to Lance, and Keith's heart sinks.

The side of Lance's face is slightly bruised, the deep color all but vanished into his dark skin. His jaw still has that stony set to it, eyes sharp and wounded. He doesn't even glance at Keith. That stings, but Keith ignores it. Deserves it. Swallows it down past the knot in his throat and listens to Ryner's breakdown of what's happening in Olkarion's solar system. Some defectors from the Empire have gotten uppity again, and the region's defenses need some help weeding them out.

It's not a mission the whole team needs to get behind.

Allura is busier than all of them lately, helping Lotor wrestle his Empire into something functional and something to be proud of - coaxing her own out of the ashes. All that on top of her Paladin duties. Hunk is working through some updates to the Castle's defense and weapons systems, along withhis own personal projects. Keith knows that he shouldn't let his personal feelings affect his choices, but he has that brief moment of hesitation where he thinks - maybe he could use this opportunity to talk to Lance.

Maybe he could -

"Pidge and I can handle it."

Keith jolts at the sound of Lance's voice, looks back at him.

Lance's face gives nothing away. He stares right past Keith at the monitor, at Ryner's face hanging above them, and continues like it's his call alone to make, "We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Thank you, Paladins," Ryner says, signing off.

The tension on the bridge is stifling as the screen minimizes. If Lance notices the worried gazes of the others and the rigid silence, he doesn't comment. He looks at Pidge, says, "Suit up," and goes to suit up, himself, striding toward Red's elevator. Pidge looks at Keith, standing mutely at the head of the bridge, and mutters, "Yes, sir."

Allura and Coran exchange some apprehensive glances. Hunk doesn't say anything.

Keith just stands there and lets it happen.

\----

Keith is kneeling in the floor of Black's cockpit with the emergency supply hatch in the floor popped open, sifting through the dehydrated food packages. He knows, objectively, that he needs to eat something - anything, at this point - but he doesn't have an appetite. Lance and Pidge have been gone half a day, and it's a relief not to have heard the alarm sounding, but Keith almost sickeningly wishes that it would, because then he could - maybe -

The monitor behind him blips.

Black opens a window showing the hanger below, and Keith glances around.

It's Hunk.

Audio clips on next,  _ "So are you just gonna live in here now? Is this what we're doing as like, actually grown adults, instead of dealing with our problems?" _

Hunk waits, staring up at the Black Lion with his arms crossed, with a look on his face that Keith has never seen before. Not on Hunk, at least. It reminds him of Shiro... Keith stands behind the seat and crumbles the packet in his hands, a wave of dizziness overcoming him.

_ "You gonna make me come up there and get you or are you gonna come down here to me?" _ Hunk asks after a pause,  _ "Because we need to talk, Keith." _

Keith hesitates, drops the packet back into the hatch and walks out.

_ You can't bury this, _ he thinks, and his gut twists.

Hunk doesn't even let him get off the ramp; he says it the second Keith is within earshot.

"I'm gonna be straight with you, man, I am seriously pissed. Like, I've never been this angry at someone in my life, Keith, I am like  _ super livid _ right now. But," Hunk holds up a hand, "Pidge filled me in about your mom situation and all that stuff. And I get it. So you need to start talking. Now. I'm over this."

Keith feels like his jaw has been wired shut.

"Well?"

He's sweating, adrenaline pumping fight-or-flight through his system, and he can't act on either of those, feels sick even thinking about it. This is a talking thing. He's not good at that. He can't just….  _ Say _ what he's feeling. He doesn't even know  _ what _ he's feeling. He's just going to say the wrong thing.

"I - can't - "

_ Why is this so hard….!!! _

"Can't  _ what, _ Keith?"

Hunk keeps his distance, doesn't physically push into his space, doesn't tower over him even though he is still very capable of doing so. But he is still demanding something that Keith just  _ doesn't have. _ It's frustrating. It's making him angry, and he doesn't want to be angry. He hates feeling like this, like he's ruining everything. He thought he was past this, but it just keeps swinging back around to take another chunk out of him and it's eventually going to leave him with nothing and it's going to be his own fault for being like this.

_ "Keith." _

"I don't know, okay!" Keith yells, his voice finally breaking free of his shaking body,  _ "I don't know, Hunk! _ I don't know what happened! I don't know what you want me to say!!"

"What do you mean  _ you don't know!! _ Keith, are you kidding me!? You  _ hit Lance! _ You hit him in the face when he was just trying to talk to you!! You  _ have _ to know how not okay that is!!"

"Do you think I'm proud of it!? It's been killing me that I did that to him, Hunk, what else do you want from me!"

"I want you to stop acting like such a jerk about this!" Hunk says, "I want you to apologize to Lance and  _ mean it! _ I know you're dealing with some serious stuff right now but you are not the only person that's dealing with some serious stuff and you have  _ got _ to  _ talk to us _ about it!! You have to tell us what your issues are so we can deal with them together! That's what having a team is for, Keith, that's exactly what Lance was trying to tell you! That's what he's  _ been _ telling you!"

"You have  _ no idea _ what this feels like, Hunk!!"

"Yeah, no, I don't! Because you won't  _ talk  _ to anyone about how it feels, Keith. Dude, you're keeping yourself all torn up about this. I'm not trying to be hateful but what is the  _ point? _  Some lady you didn't know died like three years ago! And yeah that sucks! That's awful! I get that you're wrecked over it because there are gonna be a lot of things you regret that you didn't get to do with her, or say to her, but you've gotta move past that, man. I get that you're angry, and upset, and whatever else, but don't let feeling like that ruin what you have with us. Don't let it ruin what you have with  _ Lance, _ after  _ everything _ you guys have been through together.   _ He's _ your family.   _ We're _ your family."

Hunk's words hit him like a hammer swinging toward an anvil, shaping something in between. They strike white-hot and leave Keith vibrating, burning after every blow. He  _ knows _ that. He has never doubted that. He has never seen Hunk this  _ angry _ before, either, and the dead calmness coupled with the compassion thickening his voice is what really does Keith in.

He couldn't move if he wanted to.

Hunk watches him a while longer, letting the silence drive his words home, and Keith stands there under his gaze, feeling small and ashamed and like the weight of the entire galaxy is crushing the air out of him. It crushes something else out of him, too. That stubbornness he was holding onto, that unwillingness to accept this, and deal with this, and  _ feel _ something.

Keith's eyes are burning, his face twisting, hands curling at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

The best thing about Hunk is that any anger he does feel comes from a place of caring. Having said what he came here to say, and having clearly gotten through, he holds no grudges.

"C'mon, Keith," Hunk says, "I know you're starving. I'll make you something to eat."

Keith nods, blinking hard, wrestling his composure into place.

He follows Hunk silently all the way to the kitchen.

Hunk goes straight to the wall compartments, pulling stuff out to set on the counter. He gets to work making a pasta dish - or what passes for one - and Keith forces himself to sit down at the counter. He feels raw and keyed up, pressing his hands together between his knees, thumbs digging into his palms. He keeps half-expecting Lance to wander in, keeps turning his head toward the door, heart pounding away.

They almost always eat together.

Breakfast in the mornings has become a steadfast routine for all six of them. Even if they're busy or separated throughout the day, they still have that time to catch up and just be with each other for a little while, if they have nothing else. These past couple of days, Keith has really missed that.

This wasn't like being away on a mission, or pulling a longer stint with the Blades. He has been gone from the Castle for movements at a time - but there was still always Lance anchoring him, pulling him back. Sending him dumb messages on his communicator, video chatting with him before one or both of them went to bed. The thought of Lance holding him tightly got Keith through all those lonely nights he has to spend away from him. And this is strikingly, painfully different.

Keith did this to himself - and for what? - and now he feels like an outsider sitting here, watching Hunk do something as mundane as cook; feeling the heat from the stove, smelling the rich sauce and space noodles coming together, as if from an entirely foreign place. It feels unreal, like an outer body experience, and then Hunk is setting the bowl down in front of him, and Keith is staring at it, and the steam is warming his face. It gets blurry, wavering, and then Keith blinks and hot tears are pouring down his face, his breath snapping in.

God how stupid is he?

He missed this.

Two days, and he's missed eating meals together. The noise and the jokes and the comfortable silences. He's missed cuddling on the sofa in the lounge with Lance, and watching Altean melo-dramas with Coran, and hearing Hunk and Pidge geek out of their newest tech ventures, and sparing with Allura. He misses  _ Lance, _ and it's just now crashing into him how badly he fucked all this up, how close he was to losing it because he can't process his own emotions.

Yes, he's allowed to be upset. Yes, he's allowed to be angry. Yes, he's allowed to feel whatever the hell he is feeling after getting news like this, after getting an old wound that he thought didn't even hurt anymore torn open unexpectedly.

But that doesn't mean he has to let those feelings run rampant inside of him and burst out, chaos falling from his beaten fists. It doesn't mean he can take it out on  _ Lance, _ of all people.

_ He loves Lance. _

And he just - 

He just -

Keith fists his hands into his hair and sinks his head down against the counter, his shoulders heaving, a sob tearing at his throat. It's been so long since he has felt like this. Like a monster who can't control himself, who can't control his temper. It's been years since he did something  _ this _ stupid, this reckless, and it's the worst thing he's ever done in his life.

This is nothing like that accidental bite before he knew his Galra genes were waking up.

This was him, taking his relationship with Lance - all the good things they've built up and worked on together - all the trust - all the love - and breaking it to pieces with one decisive blow.

Keith feels like he's going to be sick.

Hunk's large hand drops onto his back, careful and steady.

"Aw, man, c'mon," he jokes, "It's just rigatoni."

A hysterical laugh pops out of Keith's mouth, but it doesn't lift his mood. It eases it. A little. But it doesn't work the kind of magic that it normally does, under other circumstances. Hunk undoubtedly doesn't expect it to. He keeps his hand on Keith's back, lets him cry until his eyes are red and puffy and his breath is weak and stuttering in.

"'M sorry," Keith gasps, still heaving against the countertop, "God, Hunk, what the fuck. Why did I do something so stupid?"

"Man," Hunk says, "Keith. I'm not the one you need to apologize to. I mean, I get it. But I can't believe you just flew off and hit him like that. It's a miracle he didn't sock you right back, honestly. I know you guys push each other's buttons sometimes, and you've got real bad tempers to match, but it's not like either of you to let it come to that anymore. You've gotten  _ way _ better at talking stuff out."

"I didn't - I didn't  _ mean _ to, I - I don't know what I was doing. I - "

Keith chokes, swallows down another tired sob. He keeps his face buried in his hands, head against the counter, too ashamed to lift it.

"You guys need to talk," Hunk says.

It's an understatement, to say the least.

But talking with Hunk is the kick in the ass that Keith needed. He feels better after crying, and talking about it. He calms down. He eats. And he goes to find Allura, and then Coran, to apologize for his behavior over the past couple of days, for avoiding everyone and not listening to them when everyone was just trying to help. It just solidifies things for him. It's what he needs to feel stable and ready to talk to Lance.

Even if he says the wrong thing, even if he gets tangled up in his own thoughts, at least he's making the effort and dealing with the problem.

It's more than he would have done a few years ago.

He goes back to their room to shower and change his clothes - the same clothes he was wearing three days ago, because he couldn't bear coming back to this room when he was feeling so bad, when he was sure Lance wouldn't have wanted him here, anyway.

Lance has been sleeping in here.

Alone.

The sheets have been changed, and are rumpled differently. Keith's pillow - the yellow one that he let's Lance stuff into a pillow case, now - is in the center of the bed, tucked under the blanket. Keith stares at it, sadness welling up in his chest and filling his eyes.

Lance misses him, too, and here's the proof.

Keith knows he doesn't deserve to be missed, or loved, after what he did, and he knows Lance is upset with him, and angry with him, and that he has every right to be. It shakes some of Keith's resolve.

He ducks into the shower before it crumbles.

He goes to the bridge and occupies his fretting mind with whatever work that Coran can give him. He's still there, still working well into the night cycle, when Pidge hails the Castle - surprised to see him, a little anxious - and let's Keith know they're on their way back, and that their mission was successful without any casualties. The Galran defectors are being shuttled to the Empire to await imprisonment or punishment. The Olkari are sorting out the rest.

"Good work, Pidge," Keith says, "Thanks."

"No problem," Pidge says, some of their ease returning when Keith doesn't seem tense, "See you soon."

As soon as Pidge signs off, Keith wraps up what he's doing and runs down to Green's hanger. He isn't waiting long. Not twenty dobashes pass before the Green Lion arrives, the airlock at the long end of the bay opening and closing so swiftly that Keith barely feels a pull, that funnel of pressure as the air is sucked out. Green lands, and lowers her jaw, and Pidge steps out, pulling off their helmet and giving the Lion a fond pat.

Keith pushes off from the wall by their workstation.

Pidge approaches him slowly, dragging their feet.

Naturally, they speak first, "Keith, I'm sorry. If it were me, I would have wanted to know. But I didn't think - I'm just - I'm sorry, okay?  If you're going to be mad at someone - "

"I'm not mad, Pidge," Keith says, "I - I wasn't… I was upset. I appreciate what you did, and I'm glad that you told me. I think I was just... kind of hoping for something different, y'know? I guess a part if me  _ didn't  _ want to know, in case it was like this. And I just let my emotions get away from me. I'm sorry that I scared and upset you."

Pidge's relief flushing through the bond is a breath of fresh air. They smile a little, and Keith smiles back, feeling much lighter than before.

"I understand," Pidge says, "I'm still sorry. We can both get pretty scary over our families. I should have brought it to you sooner, or let you know that I was looking into it in the first place. I still - I still have the information. If you want it. And Kolivan - he did say you should get into contact with him. He didn't really seem too keen on speaking with me about it, but I think he was wanting to talk to you."

"I figured it was something like that," Keith admits, "I was going to get in touch with him as soon as I had some time to go in person."

Pidge hesitates, asks, "Were you going to talk to Lance?"

Keith looks down, away.

Pidge rephrases, "You should talk to Lance."

"I know," Keith says quietly, unable to meet their eyes, "I just… I screwed up so bad. What if he doesn't want to talk to me after what I did? I can't… I don't want to lose him, too, Pidge…."

"He's not going anywhere," Pidge assures him without a second thought. They bop Keith's arm with their small fist, lift a grin at him. "You're stuck with each other."

_ And with us. _

Keith feels more at ease after that.

\----

He checks Red's hanger first because it's closest, in case Lance is still there. He doesn't always like to bolt right out after a mission, especially if it was a tough one, or Lance is upset. But Red is alone. He rumbles at Keith in greeting, a perfect mirror of Lance's ire with him but a well of deep affection rolling underneath. Keith puts one hand on the warm metal of a forepaw and soaks up the contact, asking for Lance's whereabouts so he doesn't have to wander the ship looking for him.

The answer he gets isn't what he's expecting.

\----

It's been a while since he's seen a gladiator throw Lance to the floor like that.

Keith winces, watching from the window as Lance's bayard goes skidding across the training deck, losing its shape in a flash of red light. Lance himself lands on his side right after it, forcing a grunt of pain out through his gritted teeth. It crackles in the comm of his helmet and the speakers in the viewing deck. The gladiator brings its bo staff down, and Lance rolls aside at the last moment, pulls his arm back.

His bayard materializes in his hand, mid-swing as he launches to his feet to advance on the momentary opening he has. The spear end slices through the gladiator's side, rivets of blue and gold and the white outer shell flying free. The blow is not enough to dispatch it entirely. The gladiators become much more resilient the higher the level is, otherwise it would be too easy to take them out. They are well past the point where Pidge has to write more intelligent coding and Hunk has to engineer stronger bots, just to keep up with them.

The longer weapon gives Lance the same kind of reach as the gladiator, the same safety of distance.

But he isn't moving fast enough.

A yank from the bo staff has his bayard sailing out of his hand again. This time the following blow lands hard enough that it paralyzes his lungs as he drops. Lance turns over onto his back, unable to pull in a breath, to get to his feet. There's a sensor in the floor that's set to stop the sequence if someone stays down longer than three tics, and the buzzer sounds.

The gladiator stops it's approach and returns to a resting position, the over-head voice entailing,

_ "Training sequence failed. Restart?" _

"No," Lance moans, voice caught in his throat.

The gladiator vanishes, and Lance stays down, flat on his back. He lifts a hand to push off his helmet, flushed and sweating, and Keith launches up from the chair he sat down in, half out of nerves, half worried. He doesn't know why Lance came here right after a mission when he is stressed and tired, in the middle of the night. Maybe deep down, he does know. Keith thinks of their room, and his pillow in the center of the bed - a poor substitute - and how lonely  _ he's _ been sleeping on a small cot in Black's cargo bay with no one but himself to hold.

Lance is still on the floor when Keith steps out of the elevator and onto the training deck. He's sitting up now, his helmet tossed aside, and shed his arm guards and chest plate, stripped down to his flight suit. He fiddles with the wrist panel, punching a different code into it. He doesn't look up.

Keith thinks his legs are going to give out on him halfway across the room. The side of Lance's face is still bruised, blue and dark purple. He hasn't been treating it. Just letting the hurt fade on it's own.

Keith looks down at his hands, his split knuckles, and pulls in a shuddering breath.

"Hey."

The word wobbles pathetically.

Lance looks at him, expression carefully blank, and Keith's stomach plummets to his knees. He looks down, clutches the front of his shirt because he has nothing to hold on to and then moves his tight grip to his arms, closing them around himself. Because he wants to hold  _ Lance, _ but he can't.

"Lance," Keith's voice wavers, "I'm - I'm sorry."

Lance doesn't say anything.

"I….. I know it probably doesn't make a difference," Keith rushes to add, "And I don't expect you to forgive me.  But I needed you to know. I'm sorry that I hit you. And I'm sorry that I've been avoiding you. I was messed up… about…. Everything…. But I - I shouldn't have - I shouldn't have taken that out on you, I shouldn't have pushed you away like that. It was just… reflex," the word is rushed out under his breath, and it cripples him. It's the wrong thing to say. Keith tries to steady his voice, tries to have some conviction, "I should never have reacted like that no matter how I was feeling, and I'm sorry."

Lance still doesn't say anything.

Keith glances at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but there is none. He breathes in deep, reaching with his other senses, but the air is stale and the space is too big and all he can smell is Lance's sweat faintly touching the air, trapped under his suit. Even the press of his emotions are too still to read.

Slowly, Lance leverages himself to his feet. He picks up his guards, his chest plate, his helmet. Keith watches him, sick with anticipation. He feels like his heart is going to burst right out of his chest, beating a frantic rhythm, bruising his ribcage. Lance walks the few yards to retrieve his bayard, and then walks to the door without once looking at Keith.

_ I fucked up, _ Keith thinks frantically, tears pooling in his eyes,  _ I fucked up so bad, I'm so sorry. _

_ "Lance." _

Lance stops and looks at him.

"What, Keith?"

Keith flinches, a full body jerk, every muscle pulling tight.

"I'm…. I'm sorry. Don't…."

_ Please  _ is right there, but it's too much. Keith can't possibly beg Lance to stay. He can't ask Lance to forgive him, not for this, and all the words he could say choke him and won't come out.

Keith looks at his feet.

Lance sighs.

"I know that's not like you, Keith," he says, and the sound of his exhaustion is like a wave crashing over Keith. He looks up. Lance's shoulders are slumped, the lip of his helmet loose in his fingers. "You're not the same scared, angry kid that flew off the handle and laid into anyone who said something you didn't like back at the Garrison. I don't want you to apologize to me, Keith. I want you to  _ talk to me  _ and  _ tell me  _ when you're hurting! Do you have any idea what it does to me, knowing you're in pain and not being able to do anything about it? Even if it's just  _ being _ there for you? That  _ kills  _ me, Keith. I thought we were past all this."

"I know," Keith says quietly, "I'm sorry. It's… it's just hard. I've never - "

"Never had anyone," Lance snaps. He throws his things down, sends it all clattering around his feet in a cascade of red and white, of noise that is too loud in the vaulted room. He  _ slams _ his helmet into the ground. The screen shatters, the cracked helmet bounces, and Keith has the nerve to flinch. Lance spreads his arms. "Keith,  _ I'm right here!! I've  _ **_been_ ** _ here!" _

"I - I know…."

_ "Do you? _ Because you don't act like it! You can't say that you want to be in a relationship and then shove me away when things suddenly get complicated or too difficult, or a new emotion gets thrown into the mix! That's not how this works! We're a team, Keith! I love you! I don't just want the good stuff with you, I want the dirty, ugly stuff, too! I shouldn't feel like I'm not - like I'm not  _ enough. _ Not when I'm just starting to feel secure. That scares the hell out of me! That hurts  _ way  _ more than you punching me in the face did. I'd  _ rather _ be punched in the face than  _ feel _ like this!"

"I know." It feels so lame saying it again. Keith is still reeling from the  _ I love you _ . Lance says it often enough - flippant and meaningful, as if he doesn't want Keith to forget. As if he could. ...Keith never says it, and it cuts him deeply to hear it now. He looks at his feet, and can't think of what to say, other than, "I'm sorry…. You… you deserve better, Lance…"

"You're goddamn right I deserve better!" Lance fumes, but he's losing steam, "Keith, I know you're tore up about this whole thing. I would be too. I  _ get _ it. But -  _ Please." _ Lance huffs, rubs his hands down his face and then winces, avoiding his swollen cheek. "Don't - don't  _ do  _ this to me.  _ Please." _

"I'm sorry, Lance…"

Lance glares at him, wearily. Keith bows his head so he doesn't have to look into those deep blue eyes and see all the pain in them. So he doesn't have to see the way Lance rubs his neck, his hand pressing Keith's mark hidden under his flight suit.

"I…" Lance hesitates, closes his eyes tightly as Keith glances up. He takes a deep breath, and it shakes out. "I still need some time…"

"Okay…"

Keith doesn't know how he manages to say it around the tightness closing his throat and the sudden rush of tears in his eyes. The heat in his face, the cold swooping through his stomach. His hands tightening into his shirt sleeves, biting down into his own arms. But he does. He says  _ okay _ and nothing else, and Lance sighs again and kicks his stuff out of the way and just leaves the mess - the cracked helmet, and Keith, who goes on standing there long after Lance is gone, feeling crushed and broken by the weight of his actions.

\----

Keith hates how it's possible to miss someone even though you see them every day.

He continues sleeping in the Black Lion, sometimes on the cot in the hold and sometimes in the seat. Sometimes stretched out on the warm floor of living metal, where not even the presence brushing against his consciousness is enough to ease the nights he spends alone. The days are better. The tension wanes. Some sense of routine returns. Laughing and talking and being around each other is as natural as breathing, so it gets easier after a while.

But that distance is back, cooling through the bond they share.

It eats at Keith every time he goes to put his hand on Lance and has to yank it back before it lands. Each time he starts to lean into him and has to snap his spine straight. Each time he looks into those breathtaking ocean eyes and sees a jolt of realization that they're about to collide, some lingering pain. Lance always looks away first. Looks sorry and sad for that split second before he pulls his walls back up and laughs at something one of the others has said.

Keith retrieves the tablet from his alcove and combs through the information Pidge put together for him. He reads the files; old reports on fallen generals and the same type of vague intelligence surveys that could easily have been delivered to his desk yesterday. That's how monotonous this information has become. Keith latches onto the photographs, instead, the surveillance snapshots that mostly catch her at a distance - the back of her head, the sharp line of her profile.

It's weird to have a name and a face to go along with the ideas that Keith has half heartedly formed around the word  _ mom. _ He has had plenty of time to imagine what she would be like. How she would act, what she would look like, the things she might say to him.

Krolia is…. Not what he pictured. She looks like someone his dad would have liked.

Maybe that's a weird observation.

He tries to imagine their life on Earth. Did they even have a life together? She was on Earth long enough to make him. At least a year. Maybe longer. But why? And then she just left...

Kolivan is too busy to meet with him in person. Keith tries to contact him, and leaves messages with Antok or whoever else happens to answer. Keith is busy, too, and he is used to holding all these questions inside of him, anyway. It's not as frustrating as it could be. It's not as easy as it could be, either, because at least before he could talk to Lance about it.

Instead, he talks to Allura.

They train together most mornings, so it's easy to broach the subject when they're in the thick of it, adrenaline rushing, thoughts falling as instinctively as blows. Allura is almost as good at shifting her bayard to suit her as Lance is, from whip to bo staff in a heartbeat, and she has him on the floor within minutes. Keith is understandably distracted, and his heart just isn't in it this morning. His senses are sharper, this weird itch crawling under his skin.

That familiar feeling is simmering low in his abdomen.

He misses Lance.

He's only been up a couple of hours, but he is more than ready to drag himself back into bed and lay there for the next few days where he can suffer in peace. At the same time, that's the last thing that he wants. It doesn't smell like Lance. It just smells like himself, and the thought of going back to that cold bed, alone, is worse than bearing it and going about his day as best as he can.

"It bothers me," Allura is saying, waiting for him to get up with an untold amount of patience. Keith has lost the thread of what they were talking about, but she elaborates, "Each of the Blades have a ceremonial knife that is unique to their person. Kolivan must have known all along who you came from, but he never said a word about it."

Keith has thought of that, too.

But in Kolivan's defense, he doesn't exactly  _ look _ Galra, even now.

Keith flexes his sore hand as he gets to his feet, the wide knuckles, the calloused palms. Whenever he looks in the mirror, he thinks of his dad. He can't see very well how he and Krolia might look alike, or act alike, because she is still little more than an idea, half formed, to him. Something as solid as a picture doesn't help very much with that. It's why he wanted to talk to Kolivan in person - he must have known her, and he must have recognized the Blade that Keith carries.

Allura watches him carefully.

"We don't have to continue if you're not feeling well," she offers.

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

Her bayard dematerializes as she opens her hand, only to close it again and prop it on her hip, daring him to challenge her on this. Keith sighs. He's not feeling confrontational. 

He didn't think this would be as bad as it is without Lance - that weird place in his cycle where he starts to nest, when he gets a little needy. He isn't sleeping well… at all. He's already caught himself five times picking up Lance's jacket when he finds it discarded over a chair, or folded on the sofa. He has carried it all the way to their room, then bolted for the hanger, then had to turn himself around and take it back to where he found it, swearing at himself.

It's left his nerves a little frayed.

He actually crawled into one of the big dryers in the laundry room whenever he popped it open and Lance's warm, inviting smell wafted out at him. He could almost pretend that it was Lance. He slept  _ so good _ for about thirty minutes before Coran found him and pulled him out by the leg, sympathetic for his plight, but harping about the obvious dangers of sleeping in the dryer, whether the door was open or not.

Keith was appropriately embarrassed, but Lance's scent had clung to his skin for several hours after that. He isn't sure whether that made things better or worse. Since then he's kind of been avoiding Lance again, and Lance has been steering clear of him, too.

It hurts.

Keith closes his hands into fists, loosens them. He wonders if Lance feels any of this, if he feels just as heavy and depressed as Keith does.

He hopes not… He has made Lance feel bad enough.

"You should try talking to him again," Allura says gently, tugging his thoughts back to the present, "I know he was angry and upset with you before, and understandably so. But he's too stubborn to admit that he misses you, as well, Keith. This has really gone on long enough."

"There's nothing to talk about. I already… I already apologized. It's Lance's choice not to forgive me, and I didn't expect him to." Keith struggles to get the words out steadily, struggles to breathe, "It's fine. If we're not together. I should… I should talk to Coran about getting another room or something, though. It's kind of inconvenient to keep sleeping all the way down in the hangers…"

He doesn't want another room.

He wants to make up with Lance. But that's not going to happen, and he needs to stop acting like this arrangement isn't permanent. He needs to stop waiting on Lance to forgive him. Lance might. It will probably take a long time. Keith has to earn back all the trust that he threw away, and he doesn't even know where to start….

And he can't keep sleeping in the Black Lion just because he's too scared to sleep alone.

"Keith," Allura says.

He jolts, sees the concern on her face and has to look away, rubbing his arm.

"Sorry," he chokes out, voice low and rough in the back of his throat, heat stinging his eyes, "I - I don't know what's wrong with me today."

"I believe you need a hug," Allura says confidently, smiling with empathy.

She opens her arms enough for Keith to know the option is there, even if it isn't quite the same. It's not. But Keith takes it, mutters, "Thanks, Allura," into her tiny shoulder and hugs her a little tighter than he means to. Allura laughs against his throat, pats his back with rich affection and hugs him tightly in return. She lifts him off his feet, flexing just to show that she can despite his greater size.

Keith laughs, and feels a little better afterward.

\----

Keith doesn't talk to Coran about getting a new room because he's a coward. His melancholy lifts, at least, after a couple of days. He stops compulsively pillaging anything that Lance touches, anything that smells even remotely like him. He gets a full night's sleep without waking up and reaching across the empty bed for someone who isn't there.

His other habits are just as hard to break.

Keith is standing in the hanger in his armour, just back from a mission, with his black helmet tucked under one arm and a cluster of tiny, blue, bell-shaped flowers in his other hand. He had picked them up without thinking and now he doesn't know what to do with them. He can't bear to throw them away. He doesn't want to keep them.

He can't give them to -

Keith jumps and shoves his fist into the empty space of his helmet, stowing the flowers out of sight as he turns to catch the flash of red at the edge of his vision. Lance pauses a yard or so away, rocking back a step.

"Hunk needs you on the bridge, whenever you've got a sec," he says, "And…. Kolivan left a message for you on your comm, I think. It's on the desk."

On the desk  _ in our room. _

"Oh," Keith says, his heart thudding, dangerously close to blocking his throat, "Okay. Thanks, Lance."

"No problem."

Lance hesitates; moves one foot like he's going to leave and then doesn't. It takes all of Keith's willpower not to look down at his helmet where the flowers are hidden, not to thrust them out to Lance and offer him another pathetic apology. Not to open his mouth and voice all the stupid, selfish things he's thinking.

_ I miss you. I love you. I'm so sorry that I hurt you. I understand why you don't want to be with me, but I think it might be killing me. _

Lance drops his gaze to the floor and turns away. Keith only moves again when he's out of sight. He lifts his helmet, thumping it against his forehead.

_ Stupid…. _

\----

In the end, Keith is selfish.

He goes to their room to get his communicator when he knows Lance isn't there. He is staggered in the doorway. Even when his sense of smell is not at its peak, Lance's scent is overwhelming. It permeates the entire room, familiar and safe, calming like a well of spring water. Keith takes a deep breath, savoring it as he walks to the desk. He doesn't fall across the bed and bury himself in the blankets. He doesn't curl up in the bottom of Lance's closet where his scent is going to be the strongest.

Keith picks his communicator up from the desk.

He sets a small black vase on the nightstand, the blue flowers glowing faintly in the dimness.

And he leaves.

\----

Keith is gone for a couple of days.

Lance knows that he's visiting the Blades and knows that he's safe, that he'll come home eventually - but knowing it doesn't make him any less restless. He doesn't know why he's worried about it. It's not like they're together, and Keith has more than made it clear that it isn't Lance's business.

….He hates sleeping in this bed alone.

He misses Keith.

It's hard to stay angry when he just…  _ misses Keith _ more than anything - more than he ever misses Earth, or his family. Which is probably terrible.

How can he feel homesick for a person that he sees every day?

But getting to talk to Keith and see Keith is not the same thing as  _ being _ with him. It's worse somehow. It's an absolute agony. Because Lance is the one that keeps that distance carved between them. Because Keith is the one that put it there. Because Lance knows  _ why _ Keith lashed out at him the way he did, and that he never would have done it if he had been  _ thinking. _ It's worse, and it's  _ agonizing,  _ because Lance wants to forgive him for it, but he's still so  _ angry. _

He's angry because Keith hit him, and because Lance's gut reaction was to hit him back.

Maybe it would have been better if he had. If they had gotten it all out of their systems and beaten each other senseless right there on the floor. At least they would have both been in the same shape; a couple of hours for their tempers to cool, for them to realize they're being stupid.

At least it wouldn't feel like  _ this. _

It wouldn't feel like Lance has poured his whole heart out into something and it doesn't even mean the same thing to Keith. It wouldn't feel like his heart is breaking from loneliness even when he knows he's surrounded by people who love him - even if Keith doesn't. It wouldn't feel like he could turn to seafoam at the smallest touch and shake apart. It's easy to see why nymphs in all those stories would weep until they turned to stone, or trees, or birds, rather than suffer living a life unloved.

Maybe that's a little dramatic.

He can live with the fact that Keith doesn't - maybe  _ can't _ \- reciprocate his feelings in quite the same way.

What he can't live with is  _ this: _

The fact that it only took one little thing to make him feel like he didn't matter at all.

\----

Talking to the others doesn't really help. It's hard to get relationship advice from other young adults who have little to no experience of their own. Allura is still in the coy, blushing and smiling at everything, phase of her courtship with a certain Emperor, so she is absolutely no help at all. Lance can only hear "you guys need to talk" so much before it just starts getting annoying. He's not an idiot. He  _ knows _ that.

So he calls his parents.

His face isn't bruised anymore, so he isn't worried about them seeing it, and it's been a few weeks since he talked to them, anyway. There is that underlining of guilt that he's only calling because he needs something, but Lance brushes the thought aside the moment it crosses his mind. He rolls the stem of the tiny bell-shaped flower between his fingers while he waits on the connection to go through. The petals have a weird metallic shine in the light, offsetting the deep cerulean blue with glimmers of pink and purple.

The screen in front of him blinks, and Lance glances up.

One of his small nieces answers the call. The room is bright and sunny behind her and she squints into the screen at him, nudging up a pair glasses that are too big for her little face. She recognizes him a second later, as soon he opens his mouth to say hello.

"Uncle Lance!"

"Luna, you're  _ so _ big!"

"I'm taller than Cousin Malcolm, now!" she says proudly, standing in the wooden chair.

Lance believes it. Luis's youngest son has always been a round little dude and Luna is as thin as a willow just like Rachel.

She dives right into speaking Spanish. She's only six (six and a half?), so it maybe doesn't even occur to her to speak in English even though she's growing up with both. Lance's bruised heart fills up to the brim just hearing it. He is always so worried about forgetting it, forgetting that part of himself, that he speaks in Spanish around the Castle sometimes. The others understand him perfectly enough, but not everyone has the same level of ability in speaking it back at him.

Hunk is fluent. Keith is, too - that was Lance's birthday present a couple of years ago. Keith learned the basics from Lance's siblings during private chats, and practiced with Hunk every day, and then spoiled his own surprise and all his hard work by responding to one of Lance's grumbled smartass comments in perfect, unaccented Spanish.

Luna is tapping the screen, looking at him.

"You okay,  _ Tío? _ Is it lagging?"

"I'm - yeah, I'm okay, sweetheart," Lance says hurriedly, tapping the screen back. It makes her smile. She looks just like his sister. "The connection  _ must _ be broken, though. Why are you wearing your pajamas in the middle of a school day, huh? You playing hookie?"

"No! I have chickenpox." She pulls up her nightshirt to show him her tummy. It's easy enough to see the red spots freckling her dark skin, but he can also see that they're starting to fade. She still pouts, milking the attention. "It's itchy."

"Oh no, I bet it is! I had the chickenpox when I was little, they suck!"

"Did they give you a shot, too?"

"They sure did. I got a blue bandaid, and a popsicle."

"I didn't get a popsicle!"

"Did mommy not buy you an ice cream or anything?"

"She did. But I still would have wanted a popsicle.  _ Abuela _ is here," Luna says, looking off to the side just as Lance hears his own mom's stern voice in the background, asking what Luna is doing at the desk and who she's talking to. "It's  _ Tío! _ He says hello!"

Luna waves in an attempt to dismiss her grandmother, and Lance chuckles. His mom's hands come into frame first, plucking Luna up out of the chair and setting the girl on the floor.

_"Abuela,_ _I_ was talking to Uncle Lance!"

"You should be resting,  _ mija, _ go lay down a while! Ah! Ari!" Another head of curly brown hair appears over the lip of the desk, two curious brown eyes peeking at the screen. Lance's mother shoos that grandchild away, as well, with an impatient but loving wave of her hands, "Ariadne, go with Luna. Go on, now, go find something to do."

The girls retreat, calling their goodbyes. With a sigh, Lance's mother sinks into the chair at the desk. She's smiling fondly after her granddaughters, and then she is smiling at Lance. He smiles back, waves both his hands and humbly declares, "To the surprise of no one, I am super popular even when I'm not actually there." His mother gives him a look and Lance laughs, folding his arms on the desk, hiding the flower. "How many have you got today? Do they all have the chickenpox?"

"Just the two," his mother says, "They're almost over it, now, and they like to act out now that some of their energy is back, but I bet they'll go right to sleep."

"Rachel and David are at work, I guess."

_ "Sí. _ Working double shifts today."

"I want to say I'm glad I've never had to work retail, but I guess dealing with fussy diplomats is about the same. Tell them I send my condolences."

Talking to his mom is so easy. Even if he goes a month or so without calling, she picks up with him right where they left off as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

It's always been like that.

It really puts his mind at ease, has Lance smiling a lot, even though he's having a hard time feeling it today. It's nice being able to catch up on what everyone is doing. He has four siblings, and  _ lot _ of beautiful nieces and nephews to keep up with, now. Lance is not really in the mood to think about how much his family is growing without him. How much he's missing out on. How everyone's little subfamilies keep getting bigger and happier, and here he is… 

Alone.

In space...

And it sort of hits him out of the blue that he really is never going to have what they have.

He's never going to have that peaceful, normal life on Earth. He's never going to get married, and have kids of his own, because being a Paladin is a full time gig and there's not much room for anything else no matter how quiet things seem right now. If he's learned anything from his time in space, it's that things can get turbulent again at the drop of a hat, and the peace rarely lasts.

Maybe things have broken down this way for the best.

Maybe it was just a matter of time.

"Is Dad home?" Lance asks.

He tries not to let his feelings show on his face or in his voice. He knows he can't stop his hands from fidgeting - he keeps worrying this poor flower to death - but he can hide them under the desk, so he does that, hoping it's inconspicuous.

His mom doesn't seem to notice.

"He was rocking the girls," she says, smiling as she stands, "I'll go get him."

Lance is left staring at two empty rooms for several minutes. He worries that flower some more, chews his bottom lip. The first thing Lance notices when his father sits at the desk is that the man's mustache and sideburns are peppered with grey. Lance wonders with a jolt when that happened - he forgets he is at the bottom of a long line of siblings, and his parents are much older than he realizes - but then his dad is beaming at him, and he is just as full of energy as always.

"Lance, my boy! It's so good to see you!" He doesn't have the same tact that his wife does. He sees right through Lance's smile, even though it is genuine because Lance is happy to see him. His father frowns in worried response. "You're sad. What's wrong?"

Before Lance can recover, he hears his mom hiss,  _ "Diego!" _ And his dad whirls to face her, spreading his hands in a gesture at the screen.

_ "Maria. _ He doesn't call and look so sad because he doesn't want to talk about it."

"I - I did want to talk, actually," Lance admits quietly, not looking at either of his parents.

His dad makes an affirmative noise and folds his arms. His mom pulls up the other chair and nudges her husband into scooting over so they are both centered together in the frame. Lance hesitates, unsure of how to start now that he has their attention.

His eyes fall to that flower again, twirling it under the desk.

"Do you guys… do you guys fight?"

His mother looks surprised. His father doesn't.

"We disagree sometimes."

"We don't fight as much now," his father says. He gets a look shot in his direction for his bluntness, but he only smiles at his wife and continues, "We're used to all the little things that annoyed each other when we were young. Most people fight in the beginning. Are you fighting with that boy?"

He says  _ that boy _ like he doesn't adore Keith, and Lance almost cracks a smile.

Almost.

"I don't know what we're doing…"

He doesn't want to make them think badly of Keith. He just wants to vent a little bit. Get it out of his system. Get some advice for a semi-neutral third party that isnt out here  _ living _ this mess. But when he gets to the part of the story where he has to say  _ Keith punched me in the face, _ his mom's question surprises him.

"Did it scare you?"

Lance pauses, confused.

"What?"

"When he hit you,  _ mijo," _ she says gently, "Did it scare you?"

"No." Lance doesn't know whether to laugh or be offended. He has never been afraid of Keith, and the idea that he might have been, even in that moment, is totally baffling to him. "No, it didn't scare me, it- it pissed me off! I'm not upset because he  _ hit  _ me, I'm upset because he felt like he had to! I just wanted him to talk to me about what was bothering him. I was scared he was going to just close off, and then we'd never talk about it, and now we're not talking anyway and I - I feel like it's my fault. I'm the one that pushed him. I'm the one that didn't listen when he told me to leave him alone. I'm the one who made him feel scared, and cornered, and like he had no other option."

It's not what he had planned on saying at all. It's not even what he has been thinking all this time, at least not in so many words, but the second they're out of his mouth, Lance sees the truth in them. That's why he's so miserable over the whole damn thing.

He knows Keith wasn't angry when he hit him - he was scared, and hurting.

That's not an excuse, but it's a reason.

Lance has never understood why Keith thinks that anger is his default. He knows what it feels like when Keith is angry, and he rarely is - rarely has been the whole time Lance has known him. He knows what it feels like when Keith is sad, or happy, or anything in between. Maybe he can identify them more easily because they're not his own emotions. Maybe it's the unique way they're bonded, not only through their Lions and their shared quintessence, but with each other exclusively.

Lance lifts his hand to rub the mark on his neck.

"I… I made him feel like that," he struggles to say it, "Like he couldn't talk to me. And then when he apologized for hitting me, and I just - I blew him off because I was angry at him for making me feel like that, too….. I really messed this up."

"You messed it up together, it sounds like," his mother says, not unkindly, "You can always fix it together, Lance. That's what makes a relationship work."

It's an echo of his own words. He has said that to Keith a dozen times, and knows where he got that confidence from. But he's having a hard time grasping at it, now.

"I don't- I don't know if he wants to…" Lance says, dropping his hands beneath the desk again, picking up the flower that is resting in his lap. "He hasn't… been sleeping with me."

His father's face is perfectly composed. His mom opens her mouth, her cheeks rosy.

Lance balks, waves his hands, "No no no no no, I meant  _ actually sleeping, _ he hasn't been sleeping here, in this room, with me, but this is  _ our room, _ y'know, we - we picked it out together and we live here  _ together _ and he's just been sleeping somewhere else for weeks. He - I mean, I know we aren't really talking, but I still… I thought he would come back. I - I thought…. He would  _ come back _ and we could  _ talk, _ but he… he didn't… And I don't know what to do…."

He can't even explain the other thing.

His parents know that Keith is Galra, but they don't know about the intimate stuff. He can't tell them with no context that he thinks Keith doesn't want him anymore because he never took Lance's jacket during that week when he was nesting. Lance had left it lying around for him on purpose, knowing how nervous Keith gets when he doesn't get that stimulation. Lance made sure it was out in the open, in places where Keith could find it easily when he needed it.

But the jacket was always exactly where he left it.

None of his other clothes had gone missing.

He expected Keith to at least come into their room and take the bedsheets or something. His clothes out of the dryer. Anything. But he never did. That just means that Lance isn't someone who makes Keith feel safe and comfortable anymore.

Doesn't it?

But then he brought Lance these flowers….

Keith does that to let Lance know he was thinking of him, and missing him, and -

"You're both just boys,  _ mijo," _ his father says, meaning they're young, and the feelings are new, and sometimes it feels like the end of the world when it is really just the smallest bump in the road, "You're going to make mistakes and you're going to hurt each other sometimes. The happiness you feel is worth the pain. And if it isn't," he trails off with a shrug, makes a motion with his hands.

Lance is staring down at the flower again, wilting slightly from the heat of his hands. He looks up, feeling choked, not wanting to ask.

"If it isn't…?"

"Then it isn't. There is only one or the other, Lance. It is worth the pain, or it isn't."

\----

The Blade of Marmora's base has become more of a hub in recent years, only in the sense that there is more traffic in the corridors and a lot of the weighty responsibility of stopping a tyrannical Empire from expanding has been lifted. Most of their efforts have been directed toward helping newly liberated planets get back on their feet, and keeping the Empire in check. Kolivan is in a meeting with the Council of Elders whenever Keith arrives. One of the younger Blades shows him to the room where he usually stays so Keith can drop his stuff off, and then leads him to the Council's chamber.

Keith opts to wait outside rather than interrupt.

If it's anything important, someone will tell him, and he's here for personal reasons, anyway.

He keeps checking his comm every few minutes - something he never does. He doesn't know what he's anticipating. Even when Lance finds the flowers, he won't text or call. Keith isn't even sure if Lance will keep them. He's worried it was a stupid gesture, that he might have overstepped when Lance specifically told him that he needed space and time to think. He feels a flash of bitterness that he didn't get the same courtesy, but he stomps it down.

He's tired of feeling like that.

After more than a varga, the door beside him slides open, the Elders trooping out one by one and murmuring amongst themselves. Some of them nod to acknowledge Keith, or lift a hand in greeting, but most pass by without even sparing him a glance, too immersed in their conversations to notice. Kolivan is at the end of the long procession, as stoic as he always is.

He waits beside Keith until everyone has gone around the corner and then he says, "Come with me," without preamble and turns away.

Keith keeps pace with Kolivan's longer stride easily, used to following after him. 

"You wanted to talk about Krolia," Kolivan says once they're somewhere more private. It's an empty antechamber in one of the central hallways of the living quarters. There is no one traveling through here at this time of day, so there is no chance of being overheard, and it isn't as formal as a conference room might have been. Kolivan looks at Keith steadily for a moment, and before Keith can gather his thoughts, he adds, "I'm not sure how much help I will be."

Keith pulls his knife from his belt and holds it out for Kolivan to see.

"You can start by telling me that you recognize this. I've seen enough Blades coming through here to know every one of them is different. You knew who I was as soon as you saw me."

"I didn't recognize the Blade until you awakened it," Kolivan says, unshaken where Keith's voice is almost wavering, "And Krolia did not confide in me as you might think, Keith. I can see the similarity between the two of you now, but she never mentioned a child, or what had happened to the Blade that she lost."

"Why didn't you just  _ tell _ me who it belonged to?"

"Because it wasn't my place."

It sounds dismissive on the surface - years ago, an answer like that would have rubbed Keith the wrong way and boiled his blood - but he knows what Kolivan means by it, now. The codex of the Blade of Marmora is Secrecy and Trust. Keith knows he has earned Kolivan's trust over the years, and Kolivan has earned his. But that does not make them privy to all of each other's secrets, and it does not give them the right to infringe upon the other's privacy.

The exact same can be said of Krolia.

She never even mentioned him.

Keith's chest feels so tight, he fears it will crack.

Kolivan is watching him closely while Keith struggles to tame his roiling emotions. He seems to come to some sort of decision, because he steps away and says, "Wait here." The command is startling. Keith doesn't have time to register it before Kolivan is gone and the momentary confusion keeps everything else at bay, whether it was intended to or not.

And, whether it was intended or not, the few minutes he is left alone has Keith's hopeful imagination running away with him, has his pulse setting a quick pace through his veins.   
  
Maybe...   
  
Maybe Pidge was wrong.   
  
Maybe she isn't dead. Maybe Kolivan is going to bring her here to meet him. Maybe she's been here all along. People fake their deaths all the time in war, in space, in this line of work. It's possible the reports were fabricated. Maybe she just didn't want to see him. Maybe she didn't remember him. It's been a long time; would she even know who he was?   
  
But Kolivan returns alone.   
  
He is solemn as he hands Keith a storage drive that is small enough to fit in the palm of Keith's hand. Small enough to conceal easily. Small enough to keep close and carry when all other personal items must be sacrificed. Keith is heartbroken, his vision blurring, sinuses stinging, but he closes his fingers carefully around the device and chokes out a  _ thank you _ and feels a large, heavy hand sink down onto his shoulder in condolence.

"You are like her in many ways, Keith."

Keith guesses he's supposed to take some comfort in that.   
  
He can't help thinking about how things might have been different if she had stayed with them on Earth. He wouldn't have been so lonely growing up. He would have had a  _ family. _ His dad might have lived. He might have never met Shiro, or joined the Garrison, or found the Blue Lion and become a Paladin of Voltron with all the others.

He might have had a happy, normal life on Earth.   
  
He never would have met Lance.   
  
That thought crosses Keith's mind as a fleeting thing. It has his emotions settling in the next moment - sad, but accepting, and maybe slowly inching toward being okay with the way things have turned out, because no matter how much he  _ wants, _ he can't change anything now.   
  
And he hasn't been lonely in a long, long time.   
  
\----

Lance knows the moment Keith returns because his connection to Red lights up. His Lion has been more temperamental than usual these past few weeks and he must be sensing a shift, though whether it is in Lance, or the Black Paladin, is hard to discern. Lance hopes it's both of them. He hopes this is finally coming to a head, one way or another.

He flies down to the hanger. Keith is out of his Lion already. He comes up short in the hallway when Lance hops, breathless, out of the elevator.

It's too late to pretend that he wasn't running.

Lance blushes, embarrassed.

Then he notices the look on Keith's face, and a rush like ice slides down his insides. Keith is crying - or he has been. He's got that sodden look that you only get after crying. His cheeks are red, his dark eyelashes heavy. His shoulders and head are down and his eyes are distant, glazed and tinted with yellow, and Keith is surprised to see Lance for about two seconds before he quickly looks down. He shrinks in on himself, folding his arms over his chest.

"Keith, are you okay?" Lance asks, stepping closer. He doesn't mean to raise his voice, and the words come out harder than he intends in a surge of worry. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Keith says quietly, looking at the floor, "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Oh…"

Lance stops in front of him, just shy of arms reach. He withdraws the hand that he extended unconsciously, ready to grasp Keith to him. How could he have forgotten that Keith doesn't feel like he can confide in him anymore? This is all his fault. All that trust has been shredded away, and Lance is going to fall to pieces right on the spot, gutted by this distance.

Lance can see that he's tired - it's not a total lie. Maybe now isn't a good time… but, he's here, and Keith is here, and he just -

"Did you need something?" Keith asks, glancing up.

"I…." Lance closes his fist, bounces it against his leg. "I wanted to talk."

Keith hesitates.

"I'm kind of busy with something right now," he says, eyes averted.

Lance doesn't know what to make of that look on his face. His heart bottoms out, dropping into his stomach and pounding there. Lance makes himself smile, makes himself lift his hands in a careless gesture, makes himself look away and blurts out, "That's - No, that's fine. It wasn't- it wasn't anything important, I was just... Forget it. Forget I said anything. I-it was nothing."

Great. Now they're both liars.

"Oh…" Keith says it this time, softly.

He looks as if that added four tons of weight to his shoulders instead of relieving any of it.

Lance tries to ignore that.

He backs out of Keith's way and moves to the elevator, almost panicked. He jumps to push the button when they're both inside, and the slow ride up is a silent torture. Lance is hyper-aware of Keith's closeness as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the door - aware that they haven't been quite this close, or this alone, in so long. The heat of Keith's body and his natural scent cloying at the small space has Lance reaching out to the wall for support, because otherwise he's going to do something stupid and he's done enough of that lately.

The elevator levels off. The door slides open. Keith steps out first, and Lance follows right behind him.

He remembers that he was at least going to say  _ thank you _ for the flowers.

He was going to say a lot of things…

_The flowers are beautiful, but I miss_ ** _you._** _I miss you_ _so much. I just want to be with you. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I think I might actually die of loneliness. How sad is that?_

But Lance only gets up the courage to say them after Keith has already cut the corner at the far end of the hall, his shoulders bowed, and then it is too late to call him back or run after him.

\----

Lance can't stand the idea of going back to that room and sleeping alone again, so he holes up with Hunk for the night. Hunk is his best bud for a number of reasons. He doesn't mind the company, and he let's Lance sleep on the inside of the bunk. It's better having someone to snuggle up against, someone to talk to and keep him occupied until one of them eventually falls asleep. It's better than tossing and turning all night by himself.

But it's not Keith.

And Lance's sleep is fitful, anyway, when it does come.

He wakes up with a jolt in the middle of the night, reaching instinctively for the body beside him, disoriented, but only for an instant.

"Keith…?"

A hand falls on his shoulder. Too big, too heavy.

"S'me, dude," Hunk mutters.

He snores, then, and Lance realizes that Hunk is still asleep, comforting on instinct.

This isn't the first time this has happened (has he mentioned that he misses Keith?), but it feels different than all the other times before. He's too keyed up, the remnants of his nightmare sticking to the inside of his chest and making his insides crawl. Keith, lying unmoving on the ground. Lance's bloody hands and armour. It's too hot under here. He can't breathe. He has to get up. Lance eases out from under Hunk's arm and then the blankets. He climbs over Hunk's legs to get out of the bed, struggling to keep his breathing even.

He's almost past caring whether Hunk hears him or not.

He's panting by the time he gets the door open and goes sprinting down the hallway.

The accent lights are on, faint blue turrets standing out in the darkness that make each new corridor look exactly the same as the one before it. Lance doesn't stray. He slams the elevator button. He braces his hands against the wall as it begins its descent. It's taking so long. He presses his forehead against the wall to cool himself off. He closes his arms around himself and stands huddled against it, shivering.

The hanger lights clip dimly under his feet as he runs to the Black Lion and his heart soars right out of his chest when she drops her head to allow him in without him having to even ask.

He stumbles up the ramp, and it's all a blur after that - darkness and purple highlights swirling together, doors sighing open. It's a testament to how tired and stressed Keith has been that he doesn't even lift his head from the pillow until Lance has already crawled under the blanket with him. He wonders if it's his trembling that woke Keith. Lance feels like he's going to shake apart. He realizes he's crying only when he reaches for Keith in the dark and a sob breaks past his lips as Keith turns over to meet him.

"Lance," Keith's voice is rough with sleep, alert despite it, "What's wrong?"

He closes his arms around Lance without question and Lance gusts out another sob, relieved this time. He clings to Keith so tightly that it must be painful for them both. His own hands hurt from the force of his grip, the way he crushes his body into Keith's. He's almost too upset to even speak. He doesn't know what's wrong. It's just a feeling.

Nothing is wrong.

Everything is wrong.

"Are y-you okay?" Lance gasps, muffled in Keith's shirt, "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Keith says gently, "Lance. What's wrong? Did you have a nightmare or something?"

Lance doesn't answer. Can't. He moves his hands along Keith's back, pulling up his shirt, feeling the taunt muscle underneath, the warm and healthy skin giving in to his fingertips; he feels Keith's arms, his hips, what he can reach of Keith's legs. He reaches up to hold Keith's face, and Keith's hands follow his like a phantom, carefully circling Lance's wrists.

His eyes are glowing faintly yellow.

The deep purple of his irises are brighter than usual, flecked with lilac, and staring into them while Keith blinks at him slowly does wonders for Lance's unsteady nerves. It chases away all those dark, lingering images, flickering black and pooling, spreading red. His breathing slows, shuddering out of him. It mingles with Keith's and the warm familiarity of his body. His thumbs caress Keith's cheekbones, the corners of his mouth; they smooth over his eyebrows and brush his messy hair away from his eyes.

Just when it starts to even out, Lance's breath catches.

One of Keith's hands moves from his wrist with impossible care. He touches Lance's cheek, where the bruise has long since faded, the pads of his fingers soft and electrifying all at once.

"Sorry," Lance chokes, tears welling in his eyes.

Keith flinches, jerks his hand back.

Lance claps his own hand over it, grabs onto the back of Keith's hands and cradles them both against his face, holds them like a prayer. Keith's fingers twitch. He makes the smallest sound. But he doesn't pull away. He doesn't shove Lance back. Lance feels that tension coiling, feels it building in between them. He lifts his head only when Keith moves his hands - when Keith pushes them back to cup Lance's face, fingers dipping into his hair, below his jaw, as he tilts Lance's chin up - and Lance surges to meet him.

The kiss is a tide coming in and out, delicate one moment and fiery the next. Lance wars between the two, wanting to mold himself to Keith at every possible level, at any cost, in any way. He's afraid of hurting him, but he wants Keith  _ so badly. _

Keith must feel the same way. His grip on Lance tightens roughly, and then it loosens immediately. Keith drops his hands. They travel down Lance's chest, cause him to jolt; they smooth around the curve of his ribs, up the planes of his back to hold him close. He swipes his tongue against Lance's, changing the angle of the kiss, and the heat of it sears through Lance's stomach, burning him senseless. It shakes down through his limbs. It takes all the fear and doubt with it.

Whatever he had been thinking before, how he ever could have thought that Keith didn't love him - Lance feels it now, like this. When Lance brushes his hand over Keith's cheek and starts when he feels something wet at his fingertips.

He parts from Keith for just a breath, his eyes falling open.

It's not enough time to see.

Keith chases after him, mouth closing over his again, fingers tightening into his clothes, the back of his neck. Lance melts into the kiss with a groan. He licks the salt from Keith's mouth, curls his fingers into Keith's hair and tips his head back, lips brushing over Keith's jaw. Keith is the one who's shaking now, the one whose breath is breaking hotly over Lance's face as he barely stifles a sound - a sob. His hands pull back, falling to Lance's waist, his elbow, reaching up to pry Lance's hands away from him.

His voice is thick and heavy, his stormy eyes glistening in the dark.

"Tell me to stop." The words shake out of him. "Lance- "

"Don't," Lance chokes. He locks his arms around Keith's neck, despite Keith's grip. He presses another precious kiss to the corner of Keith's mouth, feels how tight his body is, like a spring ready to snap free, and he  _ aches _ so badly it is a shock when he can barely speak at all, when he doesn't just scream, "Please don't. I forgive you. I'm so sorry, Keith. I know we both hurt each other pretty bad, and neither of us meant to. You don't - we don't have to talk about it, if you're not ready to, but please don't ask me to leave. Don't push me away now - I won't - "

It's wild, the way Keith kisses him like he's the only thing in the entire universe that matters.

Lance's heart is pounding, reaching out like it could slip from his chest and into Keith's and beat there contented, side-by -side. He swallows each of Keith's gasped little breaths, he gives back each of his hard and desperate holds. He shifts easily into Keith's arms when Keith ducks to bury his face in Lance's neck. He curls around him and gasps when Keith's hot mouth finds that mark, nosing beneath the collar of his nightshirt, tugging it down.

Keith's palms slip underneath the hem at his waist and burn his skin as they slide up his back, muscles rippling underneath as Lance shudders against him. Keith licks at the bite mark. He traces the jagged indent left in Lance's skin that is a perfect match to his teeth, several separate bites inlaid over the months, the  _ years, _ they've been together. He bites down, gently, and Lance feels that curl of pleasure spike right down in his core, in the soles of his feet.

It's too much, too fast, after weeks with nothing.

Lance presses his face against the top of Keith's head, groans his name. Their legs are tangled, knees hooked, thighs pressing and rocking. Keith's scent is filling Lance's senses, the pressure of his tongue and teeth making him dizzy.

At the sound of his name, Keith's grip on Lance slackens. He pants against Lance's neck for a moment, recovering himself. He moves his mouth higher, nose brushing his skin, touching his lips to the quivering pulse high in Lance's throat. He murmurs an apology, drops a soft kiss there - again, and again. He nuzzles, rubbing his scent with Lance's. It calms them both down right away, relaxes the heavy sparks lighting up low in their bellies, trickling out into their frantic movements.

It slows everything down to a steady drip.

It breaks Keith's fragile heart in two.

He sucks in a sharp breath against the collar of Lance's shirt, lets it out in pieces.

A weak and shaky sob that gets drowned in the soft fabric.  _ "Don't - don't leave me, Lance. Please. I'm so sorry. Please don't leave me." _ Lance tightens his arms around him and rests his cheek on top of Keith's head. He squeezes his eyes closed, breathing in Keith's familiar smell and letting the giddiness that it is interwoven with his again fill him up.

"I won't, Keith," he murmurs, "I'm sorry. It's okay."   
  
Keith clings to him, then, a tremor raking through his body, a noise sticking in the back of his throat. He releases his harsh breath. He sucks another one back in, and holds on impossibly tighter, like he's afraid to let go, afraid Lance will disappear if he does. Lance holds him until his tears subside, and his sobs quiet, and after - until Keith falls asleep, exhausted, in his arms. Keith's breath tickles his neck, brushes across his chin as Lance slowly eases the other man back enough to look at him.

Keith's long eyelashes dust his cheeks, a tiny hum rising from him at the movement. It parts his lips. The hand he has around Lance's waist twitches, instinctively trying to pull him close again. Lance cards his fingers through Keith's hair to brush it back from his face so he can see him better in the faint light. He brushes away the cool touch of tear tracks on Keith's face with his thumbs, soothing over the places to ease some of his own lingering anxiety, until his eyes start to feel heavy.   
  
Lance's voice is barely a whisper, spoken to the silent room, his own exhaustion overcoming him.   
  
"We're okay."

\----

Keith is awake well before Lance is.   
  
They parted some time in the night and gravitated back. The cot in the cargo bay of the Black Lion is much smaller than their bed. Keith is lying on his side facing Lance, one arm draped over his chest, when Lance wakes. The first thing he fixes on are those deep violet eyes watching him silently. Keith's thumb is moving, rubbing the fabric of Lance's nightshirt.   
  
"Hey," Keith says quietly.   
  
He doesn't lift his arm away, lets Lance roll and stretch and groan as he works the sleepiness out of his heavy limbs underneath him. Lance faces Keith and mimics him, arm tossed comfortably around Keith's waist so he can snuggle closer. He finds Keith's other hand, curled between their chests, and wraps their fingers together with a small smile.   
  
"Hey," Lance says, just as quietly, "You okay?"   
  
"Yeah," Keith says. His brow creases, worried. "Are you?"

"I had a nightmare," Lance can admit it now that it has mostly evaporated from his mind. Some senseless, frightening sensations that linger but don't press upon him too insistently. It was enough last night to force him into a panic attack - between the stress, and all the fretting, and sleeping badly, he has honestly been anticipating the other shoe to drop. "I'm - I'm sorry. I didn't - I wanted to talk first. I didn't mean to come at you like this all of a sudden."

"I'm glad you did." Keith's hand moves to his waist. It curls into the top of Lance's pants, playing restlessly with the band, rubbing his thumb over the ridges in the fabric. "I mean, I'm not - glad you had a nightmare. I'm glad… you're here. I - I wanted..."

He doesn't say what he wanted.

Lance makes himself ask around the pain budding in his chest. "Wanted what, Keith?"

Keith glances away from him, but it's hard to not make eye contact when their heads are resting on the same pillow, mere inches apart. Their noses are touching.

"I wanted… to give you the time that you asked for. I thought… you would come to me when you were ready. If you still… wanted me. And I - I needed some time, too. But I missed you so much, Lance. You won't believe how much I missed you, I - I couldn't - I'm so sorry I - "

Lance makes a loud humming noise, frowning. Keith closes his mouth, his eyes wide. He does not look surprised when Lance pulls his hands away or when Lance pushes himself up - but he does when Lance leans over him, hemming him in with both hands on either side of Keith's head, and Keith turns onto his back to gaze up at Lance, wanting to reach for him again, but holding back.

"We said our apologies," Lance says. He is so over this. He's over this pain. He's over this heartbreak. He doesn't want to be like this with Keith. He wants to be something better, and he knows that they can be if they just  _ try _ and work together. "Keith, I forgive you for punching me in the face. Do you forgive me for being a jerk and not respecting your feelings when you wanted to be alone, even though you literally did that exact thing for me like the second I asked?"

Keith's eyebrows lift into his hairline.

He's quiet for a moment.

Then, softly, "Yeah."

"Okay, then."

Lance sits back, and Keith follows him up. But it's chilly in the cargo bay, and after shivering and rubbing his arms for a total of five seconds, Lance decides he isn't ready to get up just yet. He doesn't even know what time it is. He doesn't care.

If they others need them, they'll come and get them.

Keith goes quietly when Lance pushes him back down. Lance lays across his chest with his legs curled up against Keith's side. Keith gropes around for the blanket to cover them up again and once he's done that he drapes his arm over Lance's legs, his hand loosely gripping Lance's thigh at the juncture of his hip and rubbing in soothing circles with his thumb.

Lance tucks his arms around Keith's sides and sighs, rubbing his face into Keith's shirt. Keith's soft chuckle rumbles in his ear, in his chest; Keith's heartbeat thudding away under the sound of his breathing.

They spend the morning talking - stifling each others apologies with plights of forgiveness, offering their weary explanations so they can understand each other, working together to get to a comfortable place again, because that -  _ this, here _ \- is where they both want to be. Keith reaches up to the small headboard of the cot and brings a tablet into view when he starts talking about Krolia. He and Lance remain hopelessly tangled together even when they sit up to bow over the tablet, Lance's legs draped over Keith's lap, Keith's free hand seeking out Lance's. 

A woman's dark, serious face is looking up at them from the screen, unfamiliar but unmistakably recognizable. Her multi-toned hair is just as rowdy-looking as Keith's, complimenting her Galran skin and the two triangular marks cutting across her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes are a natural yellow, but her pupils are the same deep grey-violet that Lance has been staring into for years.

There is no doubt this is Keith's mother.

Keith's face has filled out more in adulthood, his jaw wider, eyebrows heavier - but that intense, soulful expression is exactly the same.

Lance glances at his profile, lifting the tablet a little higher to get a better comparison. Keith watches him, that small crease forming between his eyebrows as he leans slightly away.

"Wow," Lance says, "You really look like her."

"Do I?" Keith asks.

Lance pushes a hand into Keith's thick, dark hair, combs it back from his neck. The lights around them are dim and hued in purple, anyway, so it's a little biased, but it is tinted lighter underneath. It's barely even noticeable. Lance keeps his hand there, cupping the back of Keith's head, and looks into his eyes again. He feels that pull of affection deep in his chest as Keith looks back at him.

"A little bit," Lance says, raising a shoulder, offering a small smirk, "Maybe more when you were younger. You've considerably beefed up since then. Bet she could still have crushed a dude with her bare hands, though. She's got that same look on her face that you get sometimes when you're real annoyed and trying to be serious when the rest of us are goofing off."

Keith hums thoughtfully and glances down at the tablet again, his eyes hooded.

Lance puts his hand on Keith's wrist.

"She recorded a message for me," Keith says after a few minutes. He lifts a finger to swipe across the screen, thumbs through the folders to find a video he had Pidge pull from the data chip Kolivan gave him, which Krolia had given to him. He doesn't play it. He just looks at it. Rubs his thumb along the edge of the screen and looks away from the tablet, away from Lance. "Explaining things. How she ended up on Earth and… why she left."

He doesn't elaborate, and Lance doesn't ask him to. He simply rests his chin on Keith's shoulder and waits, because Keith will tell him if he wants to, when he's ready to. He has to be okay with that. With the fact that Keith is going to keep some things to himself sometimes.

"I'm sorry I pushed you… before," Lance murmurs.

Keith looks at him then.

"I thought we were done apologizing."

Lance shrugs and glances away.

"I don't…" Lance hesitates. "I know. I feel like… I put a lot of the blame for this on you, when you were already dealing with this." He motions toward the screen. "That was so selfish. I just... I - I want you to feel like you can talk to me about anything, Keith."

"I know I can," Keith says. He only has to turn his face a fraction of an inch to brush his lips against Lance's forehead, so he does. It makes them both smile. "I know you just - do that, demand attention, because you care about me, too. I… I'm still... People leave me, Lance.... I don't know why I keep thinking that it hurts less if I push them away first. It still just hurts. I don't - " His breath hitches unexpectedly. Lance rocks back, lifts his head, in order to look at him. Tears flood Keith's eyes, wavering black pools with lilac glinting on the surface in the light. "I don't know what it is about me that makes people leave me, Lance. Even if they don't want to. They eventually do. At least, it feels like it. I -"

"I'm not going to leave you, Keith," Lance says, before he can finish.

Keith blinks at him, and those thick tears slide down his calm face. It's such a quiet thing, and Keith is so beautiful even when he's heartbroken like this, that Lance can't bare it.

"You can't know that for sure, Lance," Keith says, his voice wobbling.

"No," Lance says, "I can't. Not with the kind of life we have. It's crazy out here and there's no way to prepare for everything. It's - something is going to happen eventually. But, Keith - I'm never going to leave you. Nobody who loves you will ever leave you as long as you remember them. I know that's - I don't know if that makes you feel better on not," Lance admits. He folds his arms around Keith's, laces their fingers together so that Keith knows that he's  _ here. _ "Shiro… your parents… Me, and the others. We'll always be with you."

"I know that, Lance."

"I know you do. I know it's not the same as having someone  _ here,  _ and I'm not saying it's not okay for you to miss the people who are gone. I completely understand that. But... focus on what's in front of you. Please. Don't worry about what  _ might _ happen  _ eventually. _ I'm right here, Keith. I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."

Keith's mouth wobbles, a few more tears sliding down his cheeks as he closes his eyes and dips down, pressing his forehead again Lance's.

"That means you're stuck with me, too, y'know," he says with the faintest chuckle.

Lance slides a hand up into his hair, tips his head to kiss Keith's mouth.

"I guess I'll learn to live with that."

\----

Lance thinks he should be kind of concerned by watching his boyfriend digging into the damp earth with his bare hands, crouched in front of his father's headstone. Keith works diligently until he hits the harder-packed dirt a few inches down where the sparse Arizona rain hasn't penetrated, and then he sits back on his knees and swipes the back of his wrist across his forehead. The motion leaves a streak of dirt behind. His hands must be cold to the bones, and sore from the work.

Keith flexes his smudged fingers almost absently and drops his hand to scoop some loose dirt out of the hole. He evens out the bottom, scratching at the walls with his fingertips.

Leaning against a nearby tombstone, Lance turns his gaze to their surroundings. The trees are all stripped bare, autumn at it's rainy peak. The sky is a heavy film of grey overhead and in between moments of stillness a chill wind sweeps past, scattering the fallen leaves. Lance shivers even in his coat. He adjusts Keith's, where it's folded over his arm; considers tucking it underneath his own jacket to add some insulation and also keep the fabric warmer for when Keith wants it back.

Other than the cold, Lance is totally at ease.

Being in cemetaries has never bothered him. He used to help his grandparents with the  _ ofrenda _ every year before his parents moved them to the States, used to visit the family plots with big bouquets and baskets that were too heavy for him to carry. He used to run in between the headstones, chasing after his siblings. He used to cry when Rachel pushed him down until Veronica picked him up. He used to steal offerings off the plate because Marco or Luis dared him to.

He doesn't think he should be getting so sentimental right now, and glances back at Keith.

Everything is different.

Earth isn't the same, and he's not the same either.

He's fine with that.

"You okay?" he asks Keith.

He's been sitting there for a minute, staring at the hole he's dug, a few inches deep, a few inches wide, against the headstone. Lance glances at it - the familiar surname, the date markers far too close together - another name and set of dates added right below, carved fresh into the stone. Keith is looking at it, too. Lance sees the way his throat bobs when he swallows. His long hair hides his face when he ducks his head.

"Yeah," Keith says, clearing his throat, "I'm fine."

Lance knows he's not - and that's okay.

Keith reaches behind him, unclipping the sheath from the back of his belt and pulling his knife free. The contrast between the average brown casing - weathered from use - and the luxite blade - as perfect as the day it was forged - is more apparent to Lance now that he sees Keith sitting there holding them both in his lap with his dirty hands and rolled up sleeves. The violet emblem on the hilt of the blade is unnaturally bright. It stands out sharply in their dull surroundings, the faint grey cast everything has, the crisp autumn air churning leaves.

It looks alien, out of place.

Keith turns the blade over slowly.

He feels the weight of it in his hand, rubs his thumb over the rounded symbol in the hilt. He slides it back into the sheath. He places it in the ground. He sits there for a moment longer, one hand on the pile of cold earth, freshly dug, one hand curled around the knee of his muddy jeans - and then Keith starts scooping dirt back into the hole, covering the blade, sheath and all.

He packs it down once he's finished, pressing it evenly, brushing loose clumps aside.

He puts his hand on his knee and leverages himself up.

Lance pushes off from the headstone he's leaning against and he watches with a heavy heart as Keith balls his fists at his side. His broad shoulders are bowed, his head down, hair hanging in thick locks across his face and getting gently tousled by the wind. Keith pulls in a deep breath, shirt pulling across the wide planes of his back as his chest expands.

He lets it out, and he stands a little taller.

He cuffs his palms clean on the outside of his thighs. He lifts one hand to touch the top of the headstone, rubs the toes of his boot across the patch of disturbed earth at the base of it to even things out again, meticulously. He turns away. Turns toward Lance. Steps from the grave his parents now share with quiet acceptance. Lance's chest tightens, breath catching just a bit - because he expects - well, he doesn't know what he expects. But he can feel the gravity of the moment levying into something else, and he doesn't know how to be ready for it.

Keith reaches Lance, reaches for his hand.

His fingers are cold, his gentle touch biting into Lance's skin.

Lance wraps his hand tightly and reaches for the other, smiling and asking again, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Keith says. He sounds like he means it this time. Like letting go has lifted some of the weight he's been carrying without even realizing it. Those violet eyes flash up, grabbing onto Lance's with the same soft intensity as always, a smile pinching at them, at the corners of his mouth. There's still some hurt storming underneath - there always will be, maybe. But Keith squeezes Lance's hands in his as the warmth slowly returns, and it's enough. "I'm okay."

_ We're okay. _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria really is the most Terrible part about having ADHD because it makes you think you're only being tolerated, even when people go out of their way to show you that they love you. It's difficult to shake, even when you know what it is, and I often feel silly about how big it seems after the fact. My friends can go out to eat without me one (1) time because I'm at work or busy when they decide to go and my hellbrain goes: "Welp. They hate us and we die alone."
> 
> It's part of what makes writing so difficult for me, because even when I'm satisfied with what I've written and I've given it everything I have, I worry that it's not good enough when the time comes to post it. So the amount of positive feedback I've gotten for this series so far is absolutely staggering. I feel a bit guilty for delivering the saddest parts out of the bunch in the wake of all that.…! But the happiness in the end is worth the pain!!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading and for leaving such amazing comments! It's nice to know how much of an impact this fic is having on other a-specs, and I am more proud every day that I stayed with this one, when I usually drop so many projects before they can even really get off the ground!
> 
> Maybe it's because I put so much of myself into this - projecting my ADHD onto Lance, and my asexuality onto Keith, and dealing with each of those pieces of myself in the unique ways they present with each character. It really has been a challenge and a pleasure to write this and, as always, I hope you guys enjoyed this one, tumultuous feelings and all!
> 
> See you next week! [my tumblr](http://bobtheacorn.tumblr.com) ♡


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